In the Dying Sunlight
by The Silver Feathered Raven
Summary: Oneshot. For years, all he saw was the sky, and his only companions were fragments of memories, dreams of colors, and the never ending turn of the seasons.


A/N: This is a companion piece to Don't Cry, in the way that it covers one of the characters in Saiyuki before they meet the rest. This one, specifically, is about Goku.

I used a lot of repetition in this, so if a particular word is repeated in the same paragraph, then it is on purpose. See, I wanted to try to get the feeling of a never ending blur of days.

I don't think this is one of my best pieces. As always, feedback is appreciated to help me on my next piece.

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**In the Dying Sunlight**

By The Silver Feathered Raven

It was cold. Cold, with the sun covered by a blanket of grey clouds. Here and there spots of blue could be seen, a light, washed out blue that faded into the grey. Blended so that there was almost no difference. But there was no speck of the sun.

It was windy, great gust of air sweeping around the mountaintop, howling through the stone that served as a cage for him. Cold and biting, making him shiver and curl up. The iron that encircled his wrists and neck were cold as well, freezing his skin.

His head was tucked under his arms, his entire body into the smallest ball he could make. The wind rustled his hair, froze the diadem that sat upon his head.

Cold. He was just cold enough to feel entirely miserable, not cold enough to freeze to death on the mountaintop.

The wind blew, scattering clouds, opening the all-encompassing grey. A ray of light found its way out of the cloud cover at just the right angle, entering the lonely cave and touching him on his head, illuminating the rich brown of his hair.

He raised his head, looking up. Golden light shone into golden eyes.

But the sun was nowhere to be seen. Just the light shone on him. Only for a moment, and then it was gone. Leaving him in darkness with the icy wind howling through the mountains.

…

Another day, this time there were no clouds. Not even a single puff of white on the horizon. Just blue; a never-ending blue. No rocks, no other mountaintops for him to see. No trees, no clouds, no life. Just the worn stone floor of his cage and the stone pillars that locked him in.

The blue was almost worse than the clouds. At least when there were clouds there was something for him to see, something to show him that it wasn't all a dream. Clouds had different colors, different textures. They weren't just one color.

But the clouds obscured the sun. And even if he couldn't see the sun itself he knew it was there. When the light fell upon him…when the light fell upon him he felt safe. So if he knew that the sun was there, if he could see the light, then it was okay. Then it was fine if there was only blue.

He didn't know how long he'd been there. All the days blurred together, in a long stream of blue and grey, tumbling in his mind until he could remember nothing. The line between night and day became unclear. All he knew was that it would be light and he would be safe. And then it would all turn black and he would feel cold and alone, scared. The moon and stars were little comfort, though they did remind him that something else was out there.

They were little comfort, but they were his friends. Just like the blue and the sun and the clouds were his friends. They were there and they were constant; or at least they were as constant as anything could be. He saw the moon, through he rarely saw the sun, and he saw how the moon was eaten away and how it would come back.

It was little comfort to him. But he liked the moon, almost as much as he liked the sun.

The sun…the cave had only one opening. He didn't know which way it faced; he should have known, but he didn't. Or, if anyone had ever told him, he had forgotten. He did know that it was the direction that killed the sun. Where it would fall, burning the blue and turning it red, and dip below the floor of the cave in a fiery death.

That was the only time that he saw the sun. Only when it died.

And it felt so wrong, longing for the death of the sun. But he did, because that was the only time that he could ever see it. When it died he could see it in all its glory.

When it fell out of sight and the darkness closed over again, he felt lost.

…

It was cold. And white.

The sky was grey, though there was no texture to the clouds. They just were; a blanket of a grey-white, flakes of ice falling from the heavens. Everything was quite, muffled. Silent as death.

He couldn't see the sun. Not at all.

He sat there, shivering in the cold, his arms wrapped around his body, watching the snow fall. He could see it start, imagine it leaving the clouds. Saw its downward plummet. But he never saw it land; couldn't see the ground where it carpeted trees and houses.

Everything was so still and silent. It scared him, almost more than when the sun left him. Because he couldn't see the sun, could hear anything. It was all grey, the only thing breaking the monotony the puff of white that was his breath.

White, grey, still, death. Ice forming on the bars of his prison. Crystals on the manacles that hurt his wrists.

He screamed once, screamed with all his might. A great, wordless scream, that echoed around the mountains. A scream to break the silence.

But nothing returned to him except the echo of his scream. No voices, no sounds of animals. The sun did not peak out from behind the clouds. And the snow kept falling.

He hated the snow. Hated it and wanted it to leave.

He didn't know why he was there, locked on the top of the mountain. He had no memories of what else was out there. Nothing at all. Even his dreams yielded nothing, nothing more than flashes of colors. Of blue and golds and reds and another color. A color that reminded him of warmth, even though it in itself was nothing like the sun. He wanted to know what the color was. He grasped at straws, trying to remember what the color was.

It eluded him, taunted him. What was the color, the one that reminded him of growth and life?

He wanted to know. He wanted to remember. But he never did. Not as he watched the snow fall from the grey clouds.

…

The ice was melting. Dripping, splashing on the rocks as the icicles melted away to nothing.

He was woken early in the morning as water fell on his head. With a jerk he sat up, head turned upwards.

A great, fat drop, falling into his eye. And his eyes opened wide, in surprise, as another drop fell. Then he smiled. Winter was leaving.

He laughed for a moment as he noticed that the sky was no longer grey, that the snow had stopped falling. Laughed, like he had so many times before when he realized that winter was gone.

He waited all day, all day for one thing. For the sun to come around the mountain and turn the sky gold and red. For it to dip towards the horizon and illuminate his face and hair with light.

When it came he smiled again. The sun, in all his glory. Burning the sky and brightening his world.

He liked the red that it brought as well. Red. It reminded him of something; of laughter and the smell of smoke. For a moment things came back to him. Red…red. Yes, he could almost smell the smoke from something. He couldn't remember what. And then the taste of a burning liquid and the sound of someone yelling.

_What the hell are you doing? You idiot, don't give that to him! Goku, give that to me._

His breath caught. Goku. A name. His name? It seemed to fit.

Goku.

But who had said it? Whose voice was it that he had heard? He tried to remember, tried to attach a face to the words. But even as he thought and tried to piece it together, his memory failed him and even the smell of smoke and the taste of the liquid, even the words and voice drifted away, leaving him with nothing.

Except a name. _His_ name. Goku.

…

There was something in the sky, something black against the constant blue. He strained his eyes, trying to see what it was. It moved in a swooping motion, drifting, turning, diving. He watched it, seeing it come nearer and nearer.

What was it? He wanted to know, wanted to remember. What was this thing called?

As it came closer he saw it more clearly. A small creature, with no arms and apparently no feet. Where the arms should have been were two strange appendages, outstretched and flapping slightly as it moved through the air.

It came closer to him, then folded the strange limbs and dropped onto the ledge outside of his cage. Looked at him through small, bright eyes. And hopped forwards on spindly legs that he hadn't seen before.

_Hey, what's that? That thing, with the wings?_

Someone set their hand on the top of his head.

_Don't you run off, you brat. And that's a bird. B-I-R-D. Bird._

He almost stopped breathing for a moment. That voice again. The same voice from before. And this time the memory had seemed so real. But just like before it slipped away, leaving him with nothing but another word.

Bird.

He smiled, looking at the bird where it sat appraising him with its beady little eyes. Then it hopped forward, towards him. He lifted his hand, barely noticing the weight of the manacles.

It came into his hand, its clawed feet scrabbling on his fingers. It opened its beak and trilled.

Such a small creature and yet the sound was beautiful. His smile broadened and he lifted his hand up, the bird keeping its balance by spreading its wings. It sang again, its beautiful little song.

Then he noticed something else and his eyes widened even more.

The bird had dropped something when it opened its mouth. There, in his hand, lay a piece of grass, a long stalk of the green plant.

Green…

He remembered what the color was called. It was green, the color that reminded him of life. Green.

"Green," he said aloud and laughed. "Green, green, green, green, green!"

The bird spread its wings and flapped around his head, chirping and singing. And he laughed and put up his hands towards the bird.

"Green!"

…

He dreamed that night, of blue and red and gold and green. Of a small brown and white bird. He smiled in his sleep, twitching and moving as though he were running.

Blue, red, gold, green, and…and another color. A new one. Something similar to red, yet darker, with blue mixed into it. A dark, mysterious color.

The next day, as he watched the sun and the colors that streaked out around it as it fell, he saw that color, mixed between the reds and blues. It was part of the sun, he thought. He decided that he liked the new color.

He fell asleep smiling.

But when he woke…when he woke the first thing he saw was the bird. The brown and white bird, lying on the ledge directly outside of the bars. His eyes widened as he realized that the bird wasn't alive. Not alive…

He leapt up as best he could, the chains holding him back as he dragged himself forward, reaching through the bars for the bird. He reached, reached and stretched himself.

His fingers just missed it. Just by the smallest amount, falling short.

He sat up, clutching at the bars. Then he threw back his head, crying to the sky, a wordless cry of pain and anguish. Why, why did he have to know what it felt like to lose something? Why did he have to lose the one thing that had come to him?

The bird had died, the blade of grass had shriveled. And as the years flew by the flesh and feather were stripped away from the body of the bird as it decayed, rotting away. But he could see it. He could always see it, the bones bleached white by the sun. Every morning he would see it, the first thing when he woke up.

As long as it was there, as long as he could see the body of that bird, he felt lost. Lost, small, alone. The fragments of memories faded away, lost forever. The colors in his dreams dulled to nothing. The only thing that had once mattered lost its light. The sun no longer called to him.

And then…then one day he woke up to the sound of footsteps and cursing. A golden light, cresting the stones of the mountain. He sat up, eyes wide as a person—the first person he had seen in years—came into his line of sight.

Golden hair, golden like the sun. White robes, almost blinding him. Touches of blue and green and black.

Then, as the man looked at him, he saw his eyes. The…the color that he couldn't name. The color that he had tried to remember.

"Hey." The first word that was actually spoken to him and he didn't know how to answer.

"Huh?"

The man stared at him, shining like the sun, but his eyes were cold. "You the one who's been calling me?"

He stared up at him with uncomprehending eyes. "I haven't been calling anyone." There was a quaver in his voice, a harshness from years of disuse. "Who are you?"

The man glared at him, ignoring his question, speaking in a voice tinged with annoyance. "You're lying. Now cut the act. It's annoying. After all…" The man paused, reaching out to him. Without thinking, he stretched out his arm, the tip of his fingers grazing past those of the golden man's. There was a cracking sound and the manacles fell away, tumbling to the ground with the sound of scraping metal. "…you're going to be staying with me for a while."

Then he sighed, looking very displeased. "It's not like I have any choice," he added. "Now, get up. We're leaving."

He rose to his feet, unsteady on them after all the years of not walking. He stumbled after the man, falling once or twice as he stepped past the bars. Then he stopped, seeing the bones of the bird.

He fell to his knees, reaching out and cupping the remains in his hands.

"Friend," he whispered, then rose and left them, taking only one small bone, holding it tightly in his hand as he followed after the golden man.

And he walked out into the sunlight.


End file.
